


No Need For Reality

by yuuago



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuago/pseuds/yuuago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While thinking of the last time she visited Norway to discuss magic, Belarus becomes aware that she has certain needs - which do not actually require his presence in order to be satisfied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Need For Reality

The clock in the living room struck ten. Belarus looked out the window, stared for a moment at the winter darkness, and decided to prepare for bed. It was early, but the air was cold, and the thought of reading under the quilts in her bed was more appealing than staying in the open room, comfortable though it was. She carefully shut her book and, having come to a decision, went to the bedroom.

Her clothes were quickly taken off and replaced by a thin slip of a nightdress, and she shivered as she draped her layers of clothing over the desk chair to be attended to in the morning. The bedroom air was cold and she reminded herself, just as she did every night, to leave the door open the next morning so that the heat from the rest of the house would circulate properly. It wasn't as if she needed to keep it closed for privacy's sake, any way; she would have no visitors. But even as she reminded herself of it, she knew she would not do it.

Attending to her hair ribbon took only a second, and Belarus scrutinized her reflection in the mirror as she removed it. Her bangs were in need of trimming, and she added it to her list of things to attend to in the morning. She brushed her hair out of her face, then folded the ribbon neatly and set it on the dresser surface next to the book she had brought with her. Her thumb grazed against its spine and she stopped, looked at the book for a second, and then rested her palm on top of its cover.

Although it had belonged to her for several months, she still did not entirely understand why the book had come into her possession in the first place. It had been a gift, but the more she tried to truly understand the reason it had been given to her, the less sense the gesture made. Norway had claimed that he had made a birthday gift of it because of her interest in magic, and because anyone who was serious about magic should own at least one proper spellbook. "Stands to reason," he had said. "Can't have a body muckin' in this business without a book of their own as a guide, 'least for starting." But there was something about the precision and care with which he had written the spells out for her, in his own hand that made her unable to think that there could not be any other motivation for it.

Belarus slowly opened the book and brushed her fingers over the inscription on the first leaf. _Study well. Good luck._ The light in the room was dim and she could not read it properly, but she knew what it said regardless. She had read the manuscript from cover to cover several times, and she knew nearly every word of the original spells in it. Later, she had added her own, and during the times that she met with Norway to experiment and discuss, the two of them added more.

She shut the book, then took it up, and went to the bed and set it on the nighttable. After drawing the quilts up and spreading them over the bed, she turned on the bedside lamp and slipped in between the sheets. For a moment she stayed there and waited for the layers to warm her, and when she was comfortable to her satisfaction, she reached for the book again. 

As she carefully flipped through the leaves of the book, Belarus frowned, her brow furrowing. Only a week had passed since the last time she had visited Norway, and she found that she would not object to seeing him again. It must have been the prospect of having another productive discussion that made her unopposed to another visit. However, she could not deny that it had been a pleasant meeting in addition to a useful one, much to her annoyance. They had sat at his kitchen table and talked about magic. He had made good black tea for her and coffee for himself, and before her arrival he had brought out relevant volumes of handwritten books from his study for the two of them to reference at their leisure. They had begun in the early afternoon, when there was enough weak sunlight making its way past the clouds to filter in through the kitchen windows.

"Now, see here," he had said as he turned one of his old books toward her, guiding her eyes with a finger upon the page. "Ought to keep this in mind when yer doin' summoning. Firstly..." She had bent her head toward the book, squinting at the handwritten note as she listened to his low, even voice discuss the fine attention to detail that was required when consorting with occult forces.

In her bedroom Belarus closed her eyes, pressed her nose to the page of the open book, and drew in a breath. It had the same scent of parchment and ink that she remembered from that day, but it lacked the undertone of coffee and tea, and beneath that, the scent of Norway's cologne as he leaned in close to her, a low musky note that she could not quite place.

Belarus shut the book and glared at the ceiling. Damn him, and damn his spellbooks.

She squirmed uncomfortably in bed as she moved to set the book on the nighttable and turn off the lamp. She'd had enough of reading for one night.

 

As Belarus stared upward and waited for sleep to come to her she thought once again about the visit. After matters of books and spells had concluded, and when the sorry excuse for afternoon sunlight had exhausted itself, they had taken their drinks into Norway's living room. He had lit up a fire in the fireplace and then they sat next to one another on the sofa, and he had talked about a book of supernatural creatures that he had put together many years ago. He had wanted to show it to her, he said, but he had not been able to find it in his study. She knew the state of that room, and thought it surprising that he was able to find anything in there at all.

She tried to recall what he had said about it. Monsters. Magical creatures. Illustrations, he had said, from his own observation. But instead of remembering his exact words, she found herself instead remembering the twists in the pattern of the cable-knit sweater he wore, which she did not doubt that he had knitted himself, and the way his knee had brushed against her thigh as he reached to take up his coffee from the table. She remembered catching sight of the strand of hair that curled at the base of his neck, and how annoyingly out of place it looked, and that she had wanted to pull on it.

Belarus sighed in the dark and wrapped her arms around herself beneath the sheets. They had been sitting incredibly close together, and it had not made her uncomfortable. Thinking about him, on the other hand, _was_ making her uncomfortable. Belarus frowned and drew her hands up to touch her face. She pressed the balls of her palms to her eyes and gripped at her hair and pulled on it. Then she reached for the bedside table, took up the spellbook again, opened it, and brought it to her nose to breathe in deeply.

Damn him. If she imagined it hard enough, she could almost smell him beneath the parchment and leather. 

Belarus knew that the discomfort she was feeling was not only the result of thinking about Norway. Not exactly. She knew what it was, and she knew she would have to attend to it. Ignoring it would only result in her not being able to sleep.

She put the book on the pillow beside her, leaving it open so that she could breathe in the scent of it. Then she rested in bed with her hands folded upon her chest and considered the matter carefully.

Norway, while not as annoying as some nations in the world, was nevertheless irritating in his tendency to be overly self-satisfied; the high opinion he had of himself practically rolled off of him in waves. But Belarus could not deny that he was a skilled magician, nor could she deny that he was not unattractive. And if one thing could be said in his favour regarding his attitude toward her, it was that he knew better than to bring up the subject of their political differences whenever she visited him on magic-related business.

After so many sessions, the two of them were close enough that she could recall with little effort the sound of his voice, the brush of his hand, and the annoying way his lips tilted when he was amused at something she had said. However, he was not so close that thinking about him would cause her any inconvenience.

Belarus knitted her fingers together, thought about that afternoon, and tried to imagine taking the matter into her hands. Norway had been sitting close enough to her that if she had decided to kiss him, she would have been able to do so. It would not have been difficult at all to grab him by the collar of his shirt and force her tongue into his mouth as she edged into his lap and pressed him against the back of the sofa.

For a moment she considered the idea, then after giving it due thought she discarded it with distaste. Imagining something she _could_ do did not appeal to her in the least. She could think only of what would no doubt follow after it: he would push her away and demand to know what the hell she thought she was doing.

Belarus looked upward and listened to herself breathing. The air on her face was cold. In the next room she heard the clock chime the half-hour. She turned her head and pressed her cheek to the page of the open book and breathed in its scent again. Parchment. Ink. The lingering hint of cologne that she was sure was not actually there at all. 

If she imagined that Norway was in her room, and that he was there upon her orders, coming to her expressly for her personal use, then that would be acceptable. Belarus carefully considered the idea. Yes, it would be very acceptable. _He_ did not need to be considered at all if she was thinking about him for her own purposes. No, he didn't.

Belarus sprawled out in bed and sighed. The weight of the quilts on top of her was considerable, and if she chose to - and she did - she could imagine it was instead the weight of Norway's body as he draped himself over her. For a moment, she considered the idea of him kissing her on the mouth. The thought was still unappealing. Instead she imagined him nuzzling at her neck and pressing his lips to her collarbones as he awaited her orders. That, regardless of everything else, was far better. Belarus parted her thighs and thought about having his body between them, what it might be like to feel the shape of him and the brush of denim against her bare legs. Unlike herself, Norway would be fully-clothed in this situation. Yes. He would get absolutely nothing from her. She trailed her fingers over the thin fabric of her nightdress, slid them over the curves of her breasts, and imagined that her hands were his hands, hands that were broader and larger than her own, but not inelegant. She had watched him during their visits, quietly observing as he ground herbs to a fine powder, or spun threads, or wrote notes in the margins of his manuscripts. Norway's hands were dextrous, and she would demand that he find something useful to do with them.

In her imagination, Norway obeyed her, cupping her breasts as he kissed at her throat and brushed his thumbs over her nipples, the friction of the fabric making her breath catch. Belarus pressed up against her own hands, arching her back and digging her head against her pillow. If she shut her eyes, it was easier to see in her mind the image of him slipping the straps of her clothing down her shoulders and drawing the lace and thin fabric down over her breasts until they were exposed to his hands and mouth. If she thought hard enough, she could feel the roughness of his wool sweater against her skin as he fondled her and gently rolled her nipples with his fingers.

Belarus drew in a breath and ceased touching herself enough to bring one hand up to her lips. She put her fingers roughly in her mouth and licked at them until they were damp. It would have to do. She removed her fingers from her mouth and slid them over her breasts and nipples, the combination of wet saliva and cold air making her shiver as they hardened, and as she groped herself again she thought about Norway's tongue sweeping over her cleavage before he took one of her nipples between his lips and sucked on it.

As she arched up against her hands and brushed her thumbs over her nipples she thought about it and flushed deeply. She could nearly feel the tickle of his warm breath and wisps of his hair against her chest, and could almost see him there: his hands gently squeezing at her breast, his lips parting to slide his tongue and tease at her nipple again. 

Belarus squirmed, gradually becoming more and more aware of the heat between her legs and a dull, persistent ache that was growing too difficult to ignore. She bit her lower lip and sprawled out further on the mattress. In her imagination she touched Norway's face then gripped his hair and pushed him downward, forcing him to go lower as she ordered him to find something else to do with his mouth.

The Norway in her mind complied without a single word of complaint, sliding down her stomach, his hands trailing over the thin fabric, her own following in reality to brush over her night-dress until reaching the lace hem. As he dipped his fingers beneath it to roll it up and over her hips, she drew it up enough - just enough to feel the lace sliding over her thighs and imagine him pushing it out of his way. If she though hard enough she could sense the brush of his hair and his breath against her skin as he settled himself between her legs.

With her eyes tight shut, she saw him look up at her, his dark eyes silently asking for her permission. She gave it with a cold word and a tug to his hair as she pressed him down even further between her legs to emphasize what she told him. He made a quiet noise of complaint, but then obeyed, and dipped his head as she dipped her fingers and lightly swept his tongue where her fingers trailed: between her thighs, her fingertips sliding lightly over damp, slick, heated flesh. She imagined the tip of his tongue pressing into her and bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.

If Norway were there - if he were actually there, rather than just in her mind - she would take him by the hair, wrap her fingers in it, and hold him tightly while he licked at her, grip him tightly enough to make him give out a pained sound under the force of her hold and strive to please her so that she might reward him for it with an easier, gentler touch. As it was, she could only imagine what it might be like as she slid her fingers between soft folds and thought of his lips, dipped her fingers inside of herself and thought of his tongue. She imagined him sweeping it upward and mimicked the gesture herself.

Belarus sighed and tilted her head back. She let her eyes stay lightly shut. It made it easier to imagine Norway there. As she squeezed one breast and lifted her hips to press against her other hand as it did its slow movements she thought about him. She imagined the texture of his sweater, wool and knitted cables rough against her skin as he coiled his arm around her thigh to steady himself while he kissed and stroked between her legs with his mouth. In her mind, his other hand slid downward, and his breath against her flesh wavered as he groped himself. She gripped his hair even tighter at that and forced his mouth against its rightful place again.

In her mind Norway groaned and she knew the sound actually came from her, but she pretended that it wasn't, just as she had pretended all along that the slick, wet sounds she heard came from his lips and tongue and not from her fingers as she slid the tips in slow circles and arched up off the mattress into her own hand. She imagined him growing more unsteady in his movements, even pausing just enough for him to undo the button on his jeans so that he could put his hand down his pants and touch himself, rushing at it and huffing in frustration because he knew he would get nothing from her except the privilege of pleasing her.

In the dark Belarus barked out an order to him. The word, in reality, was breathless on her lips, but in her mind it was firm, and her hand was steady as she cupped the back of Norway's head and pressed his mouth against her. She heard him moan, and felt him obey her, giving up his attempts at easing his own discomfort in order to work his tongue on her. He could grind against the mattress for all she cared. And in fact - she imagined the dip in the surface and the quiet creak of springs as he shifted his weight - he began to do it, pressing down against it, rolling his hips and moaning as he attending to her properly, in earnest, stroking at her with his tongue in slick, flat movements.

Belarus tried to slow her gestures, tried to steady her fingers and draw the moment out just a moment longer. She could feel her face flush, the heat rolling off her as she rocked her hips up. Though she knew that what was tangled about her legs was nothing more than the bedsheet, it was impossible not to imagine it was Norway, his arm wrapped around her thigh, his shoulders, his body. And her fingers were not her fingers but his slick tongue between her legs, and as she moaned she imagined him getting off on the very act of pleasuring her.

She came when she heard it, feverishly stroking circles between her thighs, biting at her lip to keep from making noise and not succeeding in keeping herself silent.

 

Later, after the vibrations had faded and she had regained her breath, Belarus rested against the pillows in the dark. Her hand stayed between her legs until that moment, and finally she drew it up from there, up from under her nightshirt. She folded her hands on top of her chest and sighed.

Beside her, Norway's spellbook was still on the pillow where she had left it. She turned her head, let her cheek brush against the open page, breathed in, and closed her eyes. The scent of paper and ink and leather pressed into her in the dark. Underneath it, if she imagined it carefully enough, was the barest note of cologne.

She had no regrets.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Laura and Coffee. Many thanks for everything.
> 
> Ao3 is not my main posting venue; if anyone is curious, my other work can be found under the name roesslyng at dreamwidth.


End file.
